Bushfire
by Ezra Cross
Summary: Clint's got his own troubles to worry about in the months following the New York attack. Russians in track suits, his dog, the neighbor kids... the last thing he has time for is a mission to Africa with Tony to track down a would-be Wakanda Thief. But that's exactly what he's doing. No good deed goes without getting burned.
1. Prologue

Clint's got his own troubles to worry about in the months following the New York attack. Russians in track suits, his dog, the neighbor kids... the last thing he has time for is a mission to Africa with Tony to track down a would-be Wakoda Thief. But that's exactly what he's doing. No good deed goes without getting burned.

* * *

I'm breaking all the rules with this one.

Any movie after the Avengers doesn't count.

Matt Frack Hawkeye Fans will especially enjoy

* * *

Bushfire

The heat stung his eyes, whipping him back and forcing his face to take shelter beneath his arm. He'd tried moving forward, pushing through despite the flames rising on either side of him, but in the end he was forced back. Fire columns cut him off on both sides. The roar of it deafening the screams of those burning all around him. He panted. With each breath, the smoke and ash stirred up and billowed out to block his vision.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

He fought against the constraints of his clothes and his own claustrophobia. His boots were heavy and dragged at every step.

The fire continued to rage, to ignite the very air around him. He was forced down on all fours to scramble beneath a tree thrown down in his path. The bark was already black and smoldering. Its crown engulfed. The further he crawled the more his skin boiled.

Sweat poured off of him from his back to his pits and flowing in every crevice, mingling in the blood from the gunshot wound he hadn't tended to. He continued to heave and gasp. He dragged himself under the tree, felt the burning bark tear into his clothes.

A radio cackled in his ear.

 _"Clint? Hawkeye, can you hear me? Hawk?! Hawk, can you hear me?"_

Clint's mic was dead. It over heated, burning his throat in a neat square. He continued to force himself forward, onward, as far out of the inferno as he could reach. Before he knew what he was doing, where he was, he had already started to dig. A flat wall of towering rock blocked his path. A tunnel rested underneath and, God forgive him, he started climbing under it.

This wasn't part of the plan.

How could he have known the man they went after was built like a thermal reactor?

How could he have known that the entire horizon would go up like a Fourth of July firecracker?

He knew only these goals now.

Run.

Dig.

Escape.

Breathe.

* * *

in honor of those who have reviewed already, as this is a re-post, here is what they had to say:

Guest: really cool

The Cocky Undead : This is definitely a interesting start! I love Clint so I'm excited to see where you go with it.

OceanicBean: I look forward to the next chapter!

Batghost: Danggit! I totally forgot how you love cliffhangers! And, leaving Clint in danger... Again.

khaitosfren : Can you slip into a story like an old habit and still be holding your breath? I'm there.

The Spoiled Duchess: Oh, honey, you can break all the rules you want. Just keep it coming! SOOOO glad you're back.

Lillehafrue : Well, this certainly started off with a bang! Holy crap! Something tells me our poor Hawk is trouble this time...Can't wait to see more! Welcome back!

sirenian22: Wow! Great start and a cliffhanger. I absolutely love your work. It is so easy to visualize everything you write :)

* * *

::: Thank you all for the support and the outpouring of love. I'm not sure what will happen to "Where's Clint" but i'm just taking this one day at a time.


	2. Chapter 1

quickly moving on...

* * *

Chapter 1

Clint Barton shoved the plate away from him with a disgruntled growl under his breath. His eyes shot up to the billionaire standing across from him, as if merely glaring at him might created the desired effect of making Tony Stark vanish. The one-eyed dog who'd adopted Barton half a year ago wagged his tail uselessly in the corner. His tongue lolled out of the corner of his mouth as he licked at a slice of pepperoni he found stuck to the floor.

"No," Clint said a second time, more firmly than the first. He stood from the kitchen counter and crossed the room with the aim of jumpin back into bed.

"Clint, Stop and hear me out!" Tony called. "And for the love of God, put on some pants!"

"You're an atheist," Clint shot back, shutting the bedroom door on Tony's face. The force of the slam sent the one-eyed dog upright. He cocked his head at the door and panted at Tony with a happy grin on his black-rimmed lips.

Tony hiked a thumb at the door. "Hey mutt, you go talk some sense into him."

The dog barked.

Tony tried the door handle, found it loose, and pushed it open easily. He instantly blocked his eyes with his hand. "Geez, Clint, I'm serious! Boxers, something!"

"You told me to find some clothes!"

"I said put them on, not take more off!"

The formerly button-shirt, boxer clad Barton was now bent over at the waist, rifling through the clothes on his floor. He crawled under the corner of the bed and grabbed the pair of jeans he found there. He stood, pulling them on one leg at a time, sans any under clothes.

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Free balling it? Really?"

"You know how much leather pants chaff? They chaff a lot," he replied.

"Why were you wearing- Never mind. File that in things I never needed to know."

"I'm not going."

Tony sighed. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned on the doorway. Somedays he felt like talking to Clint Barton was no better than trying to reason with a petulant child. He was lucky this time he came by and Barton was alone. Usually these days he had someone hiding in his bed, or laying out on the ratty couch as naked as Clint was. The Incident, which was the kind word they used to refer to the Battle in New York, changed a lot about all of them. Stark never knew the Hawk, not before the Incident and he felt he knew even less about Clint afterward. In these brief moments he happened to drive to Clint's place in the Upper north side, Tony knew he'd have a fight on his hands.

"I didn't want to come here, because every time I do, I get this," Tony said honestly. "Look, they called you. I'm here saying I agree."

"The only reason they want me is because Golden boy is out there playing patty-cake on a Russian sub and Nat said no. Now I'm saying no. I've got my own crap going on, Stark, I can't drop everything for you."

Tony raised an eyebrow and cast a critical look around. "Uh, huh, I see you're up to your neck in hero work. How are you paying for this place, Clint? Hiring yourself out like an archery hooker? Is there a lot of call for that?"

"Don't insult my hooking," Clint shot back.

"It's an easy job, because if it wasn't I would have called in Rhodey and not dragged myself up here to stare at your naked self."

Clint reached into the closet, found a new shirt, and ripped off his sweat stained dress shirt. He pulled on the black tee. He didn't bother to turn it right side out and yanked it on. "Tracking some guy down in South Africa does not sound easy. It sounds hot and sweaty and I've got my own hot, sweaty crap going on here."

"Like what?"

"I thought you didn't want to be part of my sex life."

Tony narrowed his eyes. "You're a pain, you know that?"

"Yeah and I enjoy it. Who is he?"

"Who?"

"The South African guy. Who is he?"

"Oh, now you're interested?"

Clint pushed past him to get out the bedroom doorway and into the main room again from his corner, Lucky lifted his head, tail wagging. Clint grabbed a handful of treats from the dog bowl on his kitchen island and rolled them across the floor to the dog. "Good dog," he said.

Tony followed him. "Guy's name is Fernando Rigs. Notorious thief. He tried breaking into Wakanda's treasury and vanished from the country. Apparently he's been hiding out in Limpopo's national park. Wakanda offered a reward and a search party but South Africa hasn't officially recognized Wakanda's independence. Things are tense."

"So, Wacko says Limbo's sheltering a criminal and Limbo says they're not. That's the jist?"

"No, but sure." Tony watched Clint move around the room. It had been nearly two months since he'd been to Clint's apartment. The last time they saw each other was in the middle of a bar fight. Someone had jumped Tony from behind and before Happy or Tony's suit could tear the guy apart, a jean-wearing, shirtless Clint Barton arrived and knocked Tony's would-be assailants unconscious. Clint didn't say anything that night. He only offered a firm, knowing look and vanished back into the crowd. To this day Tony still didn't know why Clint wasn't wearing a shirt.

Clint opened the double doors beneath his sink, rooted around, and pulled out a duffle bag. He crossed to his 80s style fridge, took a handful of arrowheads out of the meat drawer, and a quiver from the bottom shelf. Closing the door he straightened and looked around.

"Are your arrows in the umbrella stand? Or maybe you hid them in the couch?"

"Don't be stupid," Clint replied. In a flash of recognition he crossed to the book shelf, pushed it aside, and a bundle of arrows fell sideways and hit the floor behind it. He reached down and picked them up.

"What about him?" Tony pointed at the dog.

"He's coming too."

Tony gave him a long look. "No, you aren't taking your half blind dog to South Africa. They have laws for that. Is he even vaccinated?"

"What's that mean?"

"We aren't bringing your dog."

Clint growled under his breath. He went over to the front door and pulled it open. A flutter of noise poured in from the halls outside. He whistled once to get Lucky's attention and flicked his head to the hallway. "Go find the kids."

Lucky scrambled to his feet and loped over to nuzzle Clint's leg. The door directly across from his opened and a woman stood there with a baby on her hip. She smiled at him.

"Hi, Clint. You got trouble over there?"

"Loads," Clint replied. "Simone, I've got a job to do. You mind looking after Lucky?"

"Sure, I'll watch him. Does that mean you're leaving for a while?"

Clint hiked a thumb at Tony who squeezed past him into the hall. "Blame him. It'll be all right. Shouldn't take long. I'll be back soon, ok? Keep the place locked up. Give Grills my gun if he wants it. And tell Carl to quit setting off fireworks."

Simone's smile widened. "Ok, Clint."

"Take care of the kids." He pulled his key out of his door and handed her the ring. "Cash in the bathroom. Use what you need."

Without more ado, Clint and Tony headed off down the hall together. Clint bypassed the out-of-work elevator in favor of the stairs. Neither of them spoke. Clint could feel Tony's eyes searching the world around him as if he had to one day recreate the complex from memory alone. By the time they reached the street, and the auto-driving car waiting for them there, Tony had finally formed his questions.

"Ok, I don't get it."

Clint climbed into the back of the car and slammed the door shut before Tony could climb in beside him. Rolling his eyes, Tony crossed around to the opposite side of the car, got inside, and signaled the auto drive. The car rumbled to life. Three seconds later, their car unfolded. The body built outward, reformed, and instead of Tony's town car, they were sitting in one of Stark's latest toys. It was like a life sized transformer had converted around them.

Tony watched Clint's reaction.

"I don't care," Clint said flatly, settling down in his seat. He kicked the duffle bag away from him and set the arrows on the floor.

"Aw, but aren't you going to ask me—"

"No," Clint said, folding his arms.

* * *

Here are the reviews for this chapter from my long termers:

Batghost: And, Clint is back to his belligerent self! I'm assuming that he lives in his rat hole of an apartment... doesn't Tony have issues with it?

wolfimus prime: Drools oh Clint man put some pants on now M scared for life you #*$hat but your dog is cute

The Spoiled Duchess: I love this so much!


	3. Chapter 2

again...quickly moving on...

* * *

Chapter 2

Heat rose from the sand like writhing invisible snakes. Dry wind cut through the arid desert and swept across the intermittent grass to his position. Clint leaned on the trunk of a tree. Shade was sparse to come by this far into the park. Most of the land was built from hills and valleys swallowed up by a dry season that seemed never ending. In the distance, dehydrated crocodiles swam in a lake of mud as the sun baked their leather hides. Dust kicked up in the distance as a water buffaloes bulldozed their way through a herd of zebras. Somewhere an elephant trumpeted.

Tony stood a few paces away from him with a dozen local rangers, infantry men, and a representative from the South African government. They were going over the layout of the park and possible hold outs Fernando Rigs might have resorted to. Occasionally the SAT phone rang. It was always the same caller, same number, international code Wakanda. Thus far, Clint watched everyone in that group ignore it, even Tony.

Barton still didn't get why he was even on this mission. As far as he knew, nothing was stolen from the rival government. Fernando Rigs was small fries. Not good enough for Avengers attention, so why was someone like Tony Stark called out of his high house to go after him? It wasn't adding up in Clint's mind. He turned his wrist over and checked the face of his watch. They'd been on mission for almost a full day, half of which was spent on the flight alone. Whether Tony wanted to honor it or not, Clint was on a time crunch. He couldn't afford to be away from his place for long.

"Somewhere better to be?" Tony asked, breaking Clint's concentration.

"I keep telling you that," Clint shot back. "What the hell are we doing here, Tony? These locals can handle this guy. We're wasting our time."

"Yeah, well, I'm not convinced Rigs didn't succeed in stealing from Wakanda's vaults."

Clint glanced over at him. "What?"

Tony nodded once.

"What did he take?"

"I don't know. Wakanda's a closed nation. No one in and few ever go out. Their government doesn't want to prosecute a potential thief, my money's on the fact that he succeeded."

"And if they stole from a closed nation technologically more advanced than Stark Industries itself, then you want what he's got. _That's_ why we're here, isn't it?"

Tony smiled. "I figured there was a brain in there somewhere."

"No wonder Nat turned you down." Clint pushed off the tree and shouldered his bow. "Let's get this over with."

:(:):(:):

Night fell by the end of the second day. Clint crossed his arms over his chest, pushing his head down into the collar of his shirt. The hundred and thirty-degree noonday sun gave way to a forty-degree night. A billion stars hung low in the indigo sky and crisscrosses of galaxy dusted milky trails. Clint was tired of scanning the distance with his eyes and instead glared upward. Part of him wondered which distant sparkling dot belonged to Asgard. Thor would call him crazy and go on and on about inter-dimensional portals and other what-not. Clint didn't really care but sometimes it was pleasant to hear the big guy talk.

He turned his wrist over and checked the face of his watch. It was too dark to see the time. Clint released a breathy sigh. Hours. He'd been stuck in this tree for hours now, and before that he'd been rumbling through the desert on the back of a dune buggy with three park rangers and a local yahoo with a gun. He staked out ten square miles and walked over half of it. He picked up two or three stray trails with three tracks not belonging to the ranger trucks. Didn't necessarily mean they belonged to Rigs, though. Tony scanned the entire park with his gadgets and gizmos. The trouble was, in a place as densely populated as the Kruger National Park, identifying one man was about as easy as telling one meerkat from another. He went back to base camp after an hour. Plan was to tweak his scanners for specific heights and weights. Thus far, he had little success.

Clint shifted in the tree branch. He'd climbed up just as the sun was going down and hadn't moved since then. There were two cross roads that intersected a quarter of a mile from him. He could watch easy enough for signs of trucks rumbling down the trails or, more importantly, random single travelers. His bow lay across his lap. Three arrows were laid out on the branch in front of him should he choose to use one.

The watch face loomed at him. He took a moment to look around before deciding to hit the back-light key. Ten pm. A curse slipped between his lips. What was he doing out here in the middle of nowhere, Africa, when the people at home needed him? He pushed his hand into the pocket of his vest and pulled out his cell phone. He hadn't had any reception since leaving the airport. No internet since leaving the home base. There was an alert for his voicemail still pending. Sighing, Clint pressed the phone to his ear.

 _"They came 'round again. Fired a few shots from the roof to scare them off, but I'm not sure how long it will help. When are you coming back? I—Clint, I'm afraid. Sorry to bother you."_ Simone's voice faded away as the message ended. He stuck the phone back in his vest pocket and zipped it up past his chin. That was half a day ago. Clint couldn't keep answering every one of Tony Stark's calls like this when he legitimately had his own things to deal with at home.

As if on cue, the mobile transmitter cackled in his ear with Stark on the other end. Clint tapped the throat mic.

"What do you want?" Clint asked

 _"Have you frozen off your left nut yet?"_

Clint rolled his eyes and pressed his back against the tree bark. "Look, if you want something then say it. If you finally found a bead on this guy, then tell me. Otherwise I a hiking back and flying home."

 _"I think the cold is making your cranky."_

"Tony—"

 _"Are you still in the North East extension, by the road crossing and Long River?"_

"Yeah," he replied.

 _"Are you going to stay there all night?"_

"Is the other option sharing a tent with you across from the trigger happy Wakandans?"

 _"What if it is?"_

"Then no. I'd rather stay out here and freeze my left nut off."

 _"I want to—"_

"Hang on a sec," Clint interrupted. He sat upright. In the distance, a flicker of smoky red light ignited the sky. The air was dry and harsh despite the cold. A stiff wind shook through the branches and rattle leaves to the ground. He waited.

 _"What's going on?"_ Tony asked.

"Someone out your way set a fire?" Clint asked. Even as he watched, the flames peaked. A cloud of heavy black smoke swirled around it.

 _"Dry season. No fires allowed. Why? You see one?"_

A thunder of hooves roared over the ridge blocking his line of sight from where the fire originated. The outlines of long, sleek backs of a dozen creatures stampeded the plains on all sides of him. Tony continued to mutter in Clint's ear, but the archer had stopped listening. He was fixated on that spiral of black smoke whipping into a whirlwind. The heat smacked into him like a fist. Fast. Immediate. It brought a sudden spike of adrenaline shooting through his veins.

"Crap," Clint whispered.

A shot rang out. He felt the air rustle in a hot line. A bullet splintered the bark over his shoulder.

"Crap!"

He hunkered down, grabbed his arrows, stuck them in his quiver and began scrambling down the tree. Like fresh tinder, the entire valley floor ahead of him went up in smoke and fire.

 _"Clint, what's going on? Clint?! Clint!"_

Halfway down the trunk another shot rang out. Clint pitched forward. He slammed shoulder first into the tree, lost grip, and he fell the remaining ten feet to the ground. The wind rushed out of him all at once. If he didn't get to his feet and start running now, he'd be dead before the shooter ever reached him. His hand reached up to his chest where blood pooled down the side of him.

"Crap," he said again.

* * *

always getting himself into trouble...

last one for tonight


	4. Chapter 3

TheNaggingCube: Thank you for hanging in there!

discordchick: yes, yes, Clint should leave him behind. LOL.

Batghost: yes, I did. I'm good like that. Waste no time:)Good question, I've pondered it and have no good answer:)

The Spoiled Duchess: Hahahahah! I know!

m klindt: school done. Can't help not being that evil person I am

Minion79: Don't worry i've "finished" writing, Just taking my time posting :) Welcome aboard! All grammar errors are eventually corrected by my lovely editors. Sometimes I post before they have a chance to fix it, cause I can't help myself!

ELOSHAZZY: hahahah. Yup, no self preservation here.

* * *

Chapter 3

His comm went dead. The fire roared around him, over him, overwhelming the air with its intensity. His breath came up short every time, whether from the bullet graze in his side or the oxygen being sucked out of the atmosphere, he didn't know. He'd scrambled into a warthog burrow, stuck down deep in the earth with a boulder the size of Pride Rock covering over the top of him. He packed the exit in dirt two feet deep to try and keep the little bit of air in and the fire out.

The receiver peeled out of the flesh on his neck and dropped on the ground next to him. Darkness was everywhere. Clint unclasped his watch back and set it aside, depressed the back light key, and squinted at himself in the green din. The bullet hole tore into his chest from somewhere near his left armpit and carved a trench right to his back. Not deep, not deadly. He could still breathe, though hitched. His arms were burned, bubbling, and in some places black. The rest of him hadn't fared much better. The watch light went off automatically. It took a few minutes to find it again and restart the back light. With it, he scrutinized the small burned parts of his comm. Occasionally a stray sound would reach him, even this far under a two-ton rock. It wasn't enough to hear Tony clearly or respond to any inquiries.

Darkness returned. Clint set the comm down beside the watch face. He laid face up in the sand with his eyes toward the slate ceiling and his mind on home. He'd been shot. That would make defending fifteen apartments and forty-three residents harder than it should be. He might call his brother in for help. It wouldn't be the first-time Barney bailed Clint out and it wouldn't be the last time either.

"Stupid," he told himself, shaking his head. "You idiot. Shouldn't have even come." It didn't matter. He was here now, and that wasn't going to change soon enough to make a difference.

He got into the thick of it when he moved into the three-story old brick stone in Bed-Stuy. He made it worse when he challenged the group of Russian thugs who owned the place before he did. The situation spiraled more when Clint evicted them, took over the complex himself, and accidentally . . . allegedly . . . robbed them. He couldn't tell the Avengers. The first thing Tony would do is laugh at him, then point out the illegality of everything he was currently doing. Clint didn't have time for Tony's judgments or Cap's condescension, or even Nat's critical eyebrow flipping up in his direction.

So, here he sat. Unable to manufacture and excuse good enough to kick Tony out and not have the billionaire spying on him for answers. It had been two months since everything started. He'd already dropped five bodies in the dirt, and a hoard of track-suit wearing Russian mobsters hunted him down. Instead of being home defending what was his, he was in Africa. Under a rock. He wanted a warm bed. He wanted his dog. And he wanted to not be in an African forest fire burning to death.

Irreverent to his wants and desires, far above him, the world continued to thrash and roar.

The fire line passed overhead, heating the rock as hot as a thermal explosion. He dug himself a deeper hole into the dirt and grit. The cold earth below kept him from overheating. His eyes closed, head turned from the stone to preserve the integrity of his corneas. If he ever wondered what a furnace felt like, his curiosity had officially been satiated. It might take ten minutes, or ten hours, for the fire to pass. Ash alone would remain. That, and the charred, dead, residents of the national park who hadn't been able to escape the ferocity of the fire. Seconds became minutes. His face burned. The smell of hot warthog dung permeated the air and poisoned what oxygen he had left. Clint dug deeper, covered himself in whatever he could scare up, and eventually hit bedrock. Trapped. Trapped like a fox being burned out of a burrow.

The deafening roar of the fire's fury dulled. He wasn't sure how long it had been. He'd lost his watch in the dirt and couldn't dig to back up again. The ringing in his ears made it hard to trust his own senses. Silence unnerved him. Knowing he'd run out of time in the burrow, and terrified he might still burn to death, Clint began to crawl toward the mouth of his adopted cave. The rock above him sizzled and burned. The dirt was as hot as desert sand baked in a noonday sun. He pushed his way through it. He heaved, gasped, as he fought for fresh oxygen and to escape the stink of smoldered warthog.

One hand in front of the other he crawled out of the hole. The ground stung beneath him. Embers and ash leaving track marks down his forearms. Air heavy in heat and smoke rushed into his lungs, choking him in its thick smog. Before he'd fully dragged himself out, someone grabbed hold of him, yanking him harshly out of the safety of the stinking hole and into the light of the ravenous bush fire.

They were not friendly hands.

* * *

:)

see that

did it again


	5. Chapter 4

Jesuslovesmarina: Hahahahha. Yeah not safe for public reading due to reactions likely to occur.

Batghost: poor thing!

mafiabro: thank you!

The Spoiled Duchess: sure is!

discordchick: thank you for the fix! Yeah digging myself into a warthog burrow sounds horrible

* * *

Chapter 4

Clint blinked through the dirt, the soot, and the embers raining down from the sky. An exclamation died on his lips as his heart thudded out of his chest like a native drum. Both hands grabbed at the fist clenched around his neck. He pried at the fingers. He beat against the crook of the man's elbow, and not until he shifted up with one leg and slam it full force into the side of the man's chest did Barton finally drop. He sucked air, one gasp at a time. Only smoke flooded in. He swung up on his knees and glanced at the behemoth who towered over him. A familiar curse slipped through his lips.

"Uh . . . lemme guess . . . Rigs?" his hoarse voice whispered. His eyes traced up, following the massive legs, the robust waste, the hulk sized torso and tree limb arms all which were guided by a head no larger than a small man. Clint's eyebrow arced. "Are you ok?"

The hulked out Rigs roared at him.

Clint scrambled to his feet. He intended to run, but the hulk grabbed him from behind, squeezed him around the middle, and threw him head over heels into Pride Rock. Clint slammed flat against it. His body went limp and painless as it peeled toward the ground in a Clint-shaped imprint against the smoldering ash. The meat like hand slapped flat across his chest, the fingers curled around him, and in a breathless split second, Clint was hurling through the air a second time.

Something hard stopped him. He slammed back-first into it. His head was bleeding. The barely tended gunshot wound piercing beneath his arm reminded him of its existence. For the first time in a long time, he became keenly aware of his own breathing. Blood rushed in a constant whoosh-whoosh-whoosh behind his ears. A distant voice said his name.

Clint struggled free of whatever he'd hit. He fought his way upright. His hand went to the quiver and folded bow on his back.

The hulk turned and roared.

Clint lifted his bow, three arrows between him and the string. His fingers spaced perfectly. His stance hunched, not exact, straight arm bent slightly at the elbow. His bad habits eking back on him in his anger and disorientation. He let all three go and, half a second later, he shot of three more. The hulk rushed at him. The arrows pierced every piece of his body Clint intended to hit. Barton felt the string smacking into his arm as it sailed by, arrow laden, due to his bad form. He accepted the snap of each accelerated rubber band and the subsequent inaccuracy of his shots because of it. He corrected himself. Drew in a deep breath, and set the last two arrows in his arsenal on the string. The hulk was nearly on top of him. Its eyes were bloodshot, snarling, screaming in his gamma filled rage. His jaw was slacked open, unhinged, as if it might drag Clint right down his gullet.

Clint released the last two arrows. The shot was perfect. They split only seconds before impact and lodged into Rig's eyeballs. The hulked out man didn't stop. Momentum drove him forward, arms swinging together to snatch Clint up around the waist and squeeze the archer until his body exploded. Clint was faster. He leaped. His first step landed on the hulk's right arm, second on the arrow lodged in the Hulk's left eye, third on the back of the its head. Momentum drove the hulk head long into the bramble of burned out Acacia trees while Barton tucked, rolled, and stood watching from the ground behind. Once the hulk had rolled ten feet forward, Clint triggered the third button down on his folding bow.

An explosion of vaporized blood lit the night sky. What was once Fernando Rigs suddenly disarticulated into a heap of joints, exposed bone, and charred flesh. Clint's shots might not have been perfect but they were good enough to get the job done. An exploding arrow tip could pack a lot of damage when it landed in the right hinge of the right machine. Bodies held little difference.

The night grew still and quiet. The distant roar of the bush fire raged down an unstoppable line half a mile away, down the slopes of the arid desert lands. Clint watched the smoldering body as if it might somehow reanimate. He heaved and breathed his heart back into a normal rhythm. Adrenalin was a drug he hadn't broken his addiction to. Soon that high would subside and he'd be left hollow, empty, and in a writhing heap of pain. For now, he just enjoyed the high.

"Wow."

The words caught him off guard. Clint spun around, bow raised like a club when he encountered the surprising visage of Tony Stark standing directly behind him.

"Hey, whoa whoa whoa! Good guy! Down, doggie, down!" Tony exclaimed, arms raised in supplication. He was standing there in his Iron Man suit, helmet off, as he watched the entire faceoff with Clint and the Rigs hulk.

Clint hit him in the shoulder with his bow. "WHAT THE HELL, TONY? WERE YOU JUST GOING TO STAND THERE THE WHOLE TIME?!"

"I said something to you, but then you decide to blow the guy up!" Tony shot back

"You could have helped!"

"Um, I'm pretty sure you had everything under control."

"No, you don't, because if I did, he wouldn't have thrown me—twice-! " Clint folded his bow. He rubbed a bruise starting on the back of his shoulder. "I think I broke something. Who shot me?"

"Someone shot you?"

Clint displayed his wound.

"I'll pay someone to look at it," Tony replied offhandedly. He took a few steps closer to the pile of body parts. It took a minute, but they were slowly returning to a normal size again, leaving the man that was once Fernando Rigs, famed international thief, behind. He wasn't much to look at. Small size, spindly and coffee skinned.

"So Wakanda's got a hulk serum, huh," Tony mused.

"Is that what you failed to tell me? That I was bait out here for a hulk? Thanks, Stark, I appreciate the vote of confidence," Clint said.

"I didn't know what they had, and that's the honest truth," Tony said. He stooped down, dipped a finger into one of the pools of blood, and stored a sample of it. "It's not a very good copy. This guy went down too easy. You wouldn't be able to blow Banner's arms off like this." Tony straightened up and looked back at Barton. "Would you? Honestly, I don't think you've ever tried and now I'm curious."

"I don't know. Bruce got hit in the face with a tank once and only got madder. Somehow I'm thinking the answer is no."

* * *

Poor Clint. Hahahhaha


	6. Epilogue

Thanks for all the reviews everyone! Lest chapter ahead::

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Epilogue

Clint sat on the corner of his roof, looking out over the intersecting alleys below him. His bow sat beside him, half a dozen arrows on the other side. Occasionally a stiff wind would pick up and try to roll right over the parapet. He grabbed them and bundled them up together. His right arm was in a sling, one he often pulled it off if he needed too. The doctor's said he wouldn't heal right if he kept up his "night time archery hooking". He was certain Tony paid them to say that. Frankly, Clint couldn't afford to stop his night life. So he sat on the roof, like a gargoyle there to defend what was his and strike fear in the hearts of local no-good-doers trudging down the alleys below.

In the distant towers of New York, he could just make out the A in Stark Tower. It was the only letter left hanging after the Incident. For now, Tony left it like that. He had this idea of naming the team The Avengers because he thought he was witty one day. Clint told him that Fury came up with the name first, but Tony didn't want to hear that.

Bruce was back in town. Natasha lived in a room that Tony set aside for her. She was like a cat, coming and going whenever she wanted When she did appear, she demanded food, attention, and the best spot on the couch. Pepper was a little afraid of her, despite the fact they used to work together. Rogers wanted his own place in Brooklyn. He had a few options too, but not until Brooklyn got rid of the ten story long Chitauri sky snake that flattened half the burrow. He lived in the Tower too. One big, happy, weird, depraved, family. A family full of childless, orphan, daddy issue adults all stuck under one roof. Clint couldn't do it. He refused to do it. He had a place and he was sticking to it, regardless of what anyone else thought.

There was a shuffle of feet along the roof top behind him. Clint turned stiffly to see Grills, the local old guy, come over to offer him a freshly cooked burger. The archer smiled and accepted it with his good hand.

"Stayin' out all night, Hawk guy?" Grills asked.

"Unless I pass out and fall to my death," Clint replied.

"I shot a pigeon."

Clint smiled. Simone told him the old guy shot off his gun twice while Barton was away. Only after he got home, did she admit all he hit was a flock of pigeons. Apparently that senseless mauling was enough to keep the more dastardly track suit offenders off their back for now. "Yeah, yeah I know."

"Good to have you back, Hawk guy."

"Thanks, Grills."

The old guy returned the way he came, over to the cluster of ten or twenty others who all gathered by the outdoor charcoal top that Grills' nickname originated from. It wasn't exactly a celebration or even a "get together". In this little spit of the world, the other tenants of the Bed-Stuy brickside were just happy to have their archer gargoyle back. He might not be fighting hulks here, or getting burned by bush fires, or managing international incidents, but to Clint his work here was just as, if not more, important than anything he did out there. Lucky sat next to him with his tongue tasting the air. Clint gave the dog half of his cheeseburger.

"I still don't get it."

Clint looked at the man who had silently been sitting next to him the last two hours. Tony wore his suit, sans helmet, which sat beside Clint's bow and arrows between them. The billionaire watched the sun go down and the city lights take up what the moon didn't light.

"What are you doing here?" Tony asked.

"If you don't get it by now, you aren't going to," Clint told him.

"You do realize you are an international name now? People all over the world know you? Wakanda wanted to give you three million dollars as bounty on Rigs."

"I accepted the cash. You said I couldn't take it."

"Because we are't mercenaries, Clint," Tony pointed out. He sighed, looking at the dog. Tony caved and gave him a French fry off his plate. "I didn't know you had a dog."

"I don't."

Tony narrowed his eyes.

"Lucky's a stray. He just hangs out. I don't think anyone owns him."

"Seems to be a lot of strays around here," Tony said indicating the motley group collected around the grill. "The offer still stands. You can come and live at the Tower whenever you want. You don't have to be the hermit out here, Clint."

There was movement in the street below. A dark figure darted from one side of the street to the other Clint could see the glint of a rifle in the dismal light raining down from old town. He sat up, pulled his arm out of the sling, and grabbed his bow. He set an arrow to the string, groaned as he pulled back, and aimed for the shadows. He waited for the shot to go off. A bullet ricocheted dangerously close to Tony's exposed hand. Clint fired. A scream echoed in the alley way. A few moments later, the trench coat dragged himself into the light as he left a bleeding trail all the way back to his support van. Tire screamed as the getaway driver peeled rubber.

Clint nodded at his good work, set the bow down again, and put his arm back into his sling. He looked over at Tony. Shock didn't quite explain his kind of emotion.

"No thanks," Clint said, "I've got my own crap to deal with."

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So while this story is not earth shattering and complex, it's just a little something to get back into the swing of things. Please keep your eye on Hawkeye Moved into My House One Day, as I'm having a lot of fun over there:)


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